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There was a smear of dirt across Lydia's cheek.
She'd already taken care of the leaves in her hair, running her fingers through it until they fell apart and fell away, leaving gentle perfect waves behind. Just like always. (Fine, yes, just like magic. But she needed to use the energy somehow, and keeping her hair and skin looking perfect was fairly harmless and easy to account for.)
It just. The dirt bothered him. It wasn't supposed to be there. They weren't supposed to have the luxury of forgetting stuff like that, anymore.
"They're after you," he breathed, barely able to talk past the weight in his chest.
Not now. Not when he was so close. It wasn't a choice. Couldn't be a choice. He'd have to leave with her. He'd--
"They're after us," she said, voice soft in a way it never was, except when she was breaking his heart. "They know about you, too. Or think they do. We have to go."
-----
"You're sure he's here?" Lydia asked, nose scrunching up like she'd smelled something foul.
Mediocrity, maybe.
Stiles sighed, pulling his free leg tight back against his bag. One of his bags. The important one. He could feel the edge of the book. It was still there. "No. But this is where she knew him, and it sounded like he was an officer here, so--"
So there'd be records, probably, if nothing else.
Lydia turned wide eyes his way. "I'm sorry, what?"
Grimacing, Stiles shrugged.
So...maybe he should have told her that part.
-----
They were illegal. Both of them.
You weren't supposed to call people who'd settled in the U.S. without official permission illegal immigrants, because that implied the people themselves were illegal. And a person, simply existing, couldn't be against the law. Couldn't be illegal.
That had been a whole conversation in one of the community college courses he'd crashed. People weren't illegal. Couldn't be.
Witches could, but nobody had brought that up.
He hadn't gone back.
-----
"I was just-- Uh. Wow. You--"
Stiles knew he was gaping. Knew it was just about the least attractive face he could be making. Found himself gesturing weakly at the air in front of his chest anyway, not saying anything.
Thankfully, the deputy just leaned against the counter, raising one ridiculous eyebrow and smirking. "I?"
Stiles wasn't the one who should be illegal. This guy was. Obvious threat to the public, right there.
"No, sorry." Stiles closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over them. He needed to focus. "I. I'm looking for Sheriff Stilinski?"
Deputy--Hale (according to the name on his chest) backed off, smirk fading into something professionally bland. "Okay. And your name?"
"Martin Lyle," he lied. (He liked using Lydia's names. Ish.)
It wasn't like his dad would recognize his real name anyway.
-----
Stiles hated running, but they were good at it.
His backpack was never far from him anyway, so he grabbed it while Lydia walked into her room. Their go-bags were in their closets. Could be abandoned if they really needed it, but his backpack--
Lydia didn't really understand, but she'd never been too attached to her past.
-----
When Hale abandoned him at the door to the sheriff's office, Stiles had felt like running. Hadn't. He knocked and let himself in, peering around the door like he was expecting a firing squad, not--
The sheriff (his dad maybe, probably, oh god) finished typing out a line before he looked up. He had reading glasses, and this little frown like Stiles wasn't what he was expecting, and-- "Can I help you?"
"Uh. Yeah. I-- Sorry. Oh, here." Stiles turned, bashed his elbow against the door and winced but managed to catch it before it slammed shut. Closed it more sedately. Turned back and went to sit down. (Ignored the amused eyebrows he was getting.) "Uh, hi. I'm-- I knew your wife?"
The amusement was gone, replaced by ice. "Is that so."
And Stiles-- Stiles had no idea what was going on in his dad's head.
So he talked.
-----
What nobody ever mentions about living life on the run is that, aside from mad dashes for your life, it was--pretty normal. Involved a lot of paperwork.
Lydia wouldn't magic them into being accepted for jobs, and Stiles had never wanted her to. He's always been the one to handle the paperwork. Finding identities nobody else was using and putting them together in ways that made sense. Taking their experiences (and actual jobs, worked under different names) and making up resumes and letters and applications that were true, so long as you ignored the details. Handled the five phones they generally had at any time.
His identities always worked. It wasn't magic, not really.
He just believed in himself.
His mom had always said that was important. That if he was going to believe in anything, it should be himself.
-----
"Um. Yeah. I just thought--"
"Look, son," the sheriff sighed, leaning forward and wrapping his hands around each other. (Completely oblivious to the startled jump in Stiles' heartbeat. Hopefully.) "I don't know you, and I don't know anything about you. The best I can offer you is the chance to walk out while that's true. If you think I'm going to help you, then--"
"I'm not a witch," Stiles said. Which--perfectly true. Ish. "But I thought you should know that Claudia's dead."
The flinch was obvious. Regret, loss, surprise. He covered some of it, taking his glasses off and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, but--
Not all. And he'd been about to let Stiles walk out, thinking he was a witch looking for help.
"He's a good man," Stiles remembered his mother saying, sadness for once stronger than the pain. "I miss him so much."
-----
They were asleep in the sedan they had maybe, just possibly, obtained illegally on their way out of town.
Had been asleep.
Stiles' hand was on Lydia's shoulder before he even realized he was awake. "Lydia. Lydia, you need to look. They're--"
Lydia's eyes were pale when she opened them, her breathing shallow and her fingers clutching at his shirt. "They're close. The werewolves are working with them. We have to go."
It wouldn't matter, that Lydia changed the color of the car or the license plate number, if the werewolves were working with the hunters. Their scent was all over it.
Stiles refused to think about it. Grabbed his bag and went.
-----
"You okay?"
Hale was leaning over the counter again, when Stiles jerked his head up, but the smirk was nowhere to be seen. He looked--concerned, more than anything.
Crap. He must look awful.
"I'll be fine. Thanks."
He was just going to leave. Go back to the motel. Wait for Lydia. Run away. Find a city to hide in. (It was easier, in cities. Big, crowded places. Television had that much right, at least.)
Because Lydia was right, as usual. He didn't have a dad. Not really. At best, he had a father who didn't know him. Didn't know about him. Didn't--
A hand on his shoulder stopped him and when, exactly, had Hale ended up on Stiles' side of the counter? "You look like crap," Hale said bluntly, and Stiles didn't bother fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Come get lunch with me."
Stiles was pretty sure he was gaping again, but he thought it was justified. "You have a really weird way of asking people out."
Angry-flustered was a good look on Hale. Damnit. "I'm not--" He growled (ahd oh, oh shit, actual growl. Werewolf) and gave Stiles a light push toward the door. "I'm just worried."
Stiles wasn't a werewolf, but he was pretty sure Hale was lying.
-----
The first time he met Lydia, she was holding a body against her chest and leaking fire down her arms. Her eyes had been white, but the lines of her face said grief, to him. Not rage.
The hunters had gone for reinforcements. Everybody else was backing away. Everybody sensible had started running already.
Stiles' mother had died a month before.
He stepped forward. Walked right up to her and put his hands over hers. Let himself cry with her.
When Lydia's hands shot up, the bullets she'd stopped had been aimed at both of them.
They were illegal, after all.
(Lydia didn't kill the hunters, but that was just good luck. They didn't have much of it, couldn't afford to, but Stiles wasn't going to complain about it that time.)
-----
Stiles sighed, fingers digging into the bread of his (good. really, really good) sandwich. "I'm not a witch," he said, rolling his eyes.
Sometimes, he thought his mother had cast a spell that put him into these situations. Lydia didn't come under suspicion this much, and she kind of perfectly matched the description (weirdly!) of this really young witch who'd escaped a group of hunters years ago. (And Stiles was sorry, but strawberry blonde was not that common of a hair color. If Lydia was going to refuse to change it, she should have to deal with the stupid questions sometimes too. But no, it was just Stiles, who had forgettable everything and, from the official reports, might have actually been a hostage.)
Point being, he had to answer that question too much.
Hale quirked an eyebrow at him, which. Rude. The dude could hear his heartbeat.
"Witches can't lie to werewolves," Stiles reminded him, earning a glare. Which--right. Hale hadn't actually told him that, yet. "Crap," he muttered, slapping a hand over his face. (Sandwich free, thankfully.) "Sorry. I didn't--"
"I don't think you're normal," Hale cut him off, lifting his sandwich for another bite. He was relaxed again, though, so Stiles was taking that as a win.
-----
Stiles had never seen Lydia white-eyed and irritated before. Afraid, yes. (Way too often. Far, far too often.) Angry, also yes. Enthralled, just the two most terrifying moments of his life, thanks.
Irritated wasn't generally a strong enough emotion to push past her control.
"Your fucking boyfriend," she ground out, pulling him close and wiping her hands down his face. He closed his eyes and let her, even though it felt really, really fucking weird. Even though it sent magic skittering all over his skin. "Honestly, Stiles."
The magic spread out from his feet. The howl, when it came, was--close. Too close. Too close to hear where it came from.
It sounded like loss.
Probably over the scent trail Lydia just obliterated. Stiles would be tripping for the rest of the night to pay for that.
-----
Stiles was still planning on leaving when Derek (because that was Hale's name. Derek. Because he was, in fact, a living representation of rugged hotness) caught the back of his collar. Which. Rude. Stiles wasn't even leaving yet, just--
Okay, he was planning on leaving the parking lot. But he'd been going to say thank you and goodbye, first. He had manners.
Sometimes.
Derek's eyebrows seemed to doubt this. Or maybe they were just waiting for his mental tangent to end. "Yes?"
"This wasn't a date."
Stiles blinked. "Uh. Yeah? You made that pretty clear, earlier."
The smirk was back. "Maybe next time it could be?"
They were going to leave. He was going to go back to the motel and wait for Lydia. He was going to tell her about everything that happened and--
"Yeah. I mean. Yeah, that'd be good."
And they'd leave. Soon.
Probably.
-----
All magic had cost. It was more than a fact he knew, it was a rule he had growing up, drilled into his head long before his mom knew if he had magic or not. All magic cost something.
It wasn't that people thought witches actually went around casting spells to put people under their power, or to hurt them, or to trick them just because it was funny. (Which--okay, they did think that. But that wouldn't have been enough for the laws, Stiles thought. His mother had thought.) No. The real kicker was that people just thought they were careless.
A witch making good luck created bad luck. A witch healing caused illness. A witch creating something destroyed another.
(Lydia was good at balance. Mend a rip in her sweater, create one in her jeans. Destroy some debris in her hair, add some extra fluff to her sweater. There were loads of harmless little give and takes she could create, that way.)
People thought witches were careless, with their costs. (Some were. Lots were. It was hard. But his mother hadn't been. His mother had--)
The problem was, a witch was magic. A witch created magic by existing, and it needed to go somewhere.
They had to use it. There was no opting out.
-----
They were going to leave. They were.
Just as soon as he got tired of kissing Derek.
Okay, so he kind of suspected that would be never. Even if Derek was an asshole sometimes, he was really, really awesome at the kissing thing. But Derek was going to get tired of him eventually, so they'd just--leave then.
Lydia didn't mind, much. She'd found an office that was letting her terrify them into better efficiency and organization. Made a few friends. Smiled indulgently at him and pat him on the head whenever he came home grinning.
But they'd leave. He knew they'd leave.
And if he wasn't telling her that the sheriff had started relaxing around him. Had started smiling at him and was willing to talk with him and sometimes looked at him like he was--heh--familiar...
Well. That was what they'd come for to begin with. It wasn't a big deal.
-----
Chances were, Derek was on the hunt in an official capacity as a deputy of Beacon Hills.
Stiles wasn't asking Lydia if his dad was out there too. Couldn't.
He focused on his feet, instead. Watching the ground while Lydia pulled him along. Let her be responsible for the trees.
Even giving it his full attention, he kept tripping.
Fucking magic.
-----
They always messed up with the best intentions.
Lydia's hands shook as she shoved more kleenex at his nose. She wasn't crying. Not quite. "Why isn't it stopping?"
She knew the answer to that. His nose wouldn't stop bleeding because a car had stopped moving. The kid who'd run into the street was fine, so Stiles--wasn't.
(It lasted an hour and a half. Not too bad, for maybe saving a life. He was relieved she went for the car, not the kid. That he was just woozy for a little while, not in need of a transfusion.)
-----
His mom usually found jobs in hospitals. It was mostly janitorial work, but she still came home with bruises and bloody noses and headaches that would lay her out for days.
"Just addicted to helping, I guess," she'd said, fingers trembling around the ice pack Stiles had brought her. "I'm sorry. I just--"
She had to use it. There was no opting out.
Until, he supposed, the day she came home with cancer. That was a kind of opting out.
-----
He'd thought they were okay, that there hadn't been any witnesses, until Lydia came through the door like a force of nature; eyes wild, hair sprinkled with leaves, and a smear of dirt across one cheek.
Stiles knew there wasn't a choice. That he'd stay with the witch who was as much his as he was hers.
But it hurt, even before she said anything. Before he knew they were hunting him too.
-----
There was a howl, then a wolf, and they were out of options.
He didn't know the wolf who found them, mostly registered blond curls and predatory eyes, but Lydia hissed at him in recognition and that was just... Their lives. What even.
They'd both figured they had to worry about his wolf. Didn't even know Lydia had one.
(Their luck was terrible like that. Always had been. They didn't trust anything else.)
Stiles stepped between Lydia and the wolf, then backed up until she was pressed against his back. There was no way her eyes would stay clear, if they hadn't already gone white, and hiding them was probably a good plan. (The contact would help her, too. Remind her where her costs were going to go. Keep her present.)
They could escape. Even with another shape crashing through the trees, even with Derek landing in the tiny gap between trees they'd found themselves in, face shifted and terrifyingly blank, they could still escape.
They'd just have to kill, or come close to it.
Lydia's hands, tiny and absolutely terrifying, came up and faced palm out on either side of his waist. It was her favorite catching-projectiles pose, and she didn't actually need to see to do that. Just--have projectiles happen, at some point. But it was still defensive, so that was good. Gave him time.
"Do we have to do this?" Stiles asked, not quite up to meeting Derek's eyes but at least looking at his shoulder. Shoulders were great for avoiding eye contact. (Derek's shoulders were great in general, really. But no. Focus.) "We haven't hurt anybody. We're just--"
"You lied," Derek said, oddly clear and calm, despite the fangs. "You lied to a werewolf."
"Uh. No?" Stiles tried, and Lydia smothered a snort against his back. Which. Ugh. Gross. "Wait. What do you think I lied about? I'm not a witch, if that's what you mean. Just-- Uh." He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "Just Lydia."
He figured they kind of knew that already anyway. Lydia didn't seem mad at him, at least. Wiggled the fingers of one hand in Derek's general direction.
"Lydia," Derek said, not--quite so expressionless, now. More like he'd bitten into something he didn't like.
"Actually, my name's Elizabeth," Lydia said, leaning around him aaaand, yup, eyes full on white when he glanced to the side. This was his least favorite expression for white-eyes, honestly. Calm. "Elizabeth Marie Franklin. I was born in 1935, to Gregory and Francis--"
Derek held up his hand, which--no claws. Just a hand. Though that might have been because he was rubbing his forehead with the other hand. "Stop. Please."
Stiles stifled the urge to giggle. Lydia could keep her heartbeat calm and steady through just about anything, but witches couldn't lie to werewolves. It was funny, when it wasn't really inconvenient.
Lydia made a rude noise then ducked behind him again, pressing her nose against his shoulder like-- "Stiles isn't a witch." Oh, hell no. "He's my familiar."
Stiles sighed as both werewolves went immediately-- Well, honestly, those were about the expressions Stiles would have expected if someone had just accused Derek of bestiality.
Which, probably, what they were thinking.
"Okay, no. Hi," he sighed. "Human. Get your brains out of the gutter, okay? A familiar to a witch is just like an anchor to a werewolf. I'm just-- I'm only a little magic, okay? That's all."
Familiars weren't usually human, but they weren't always cats and frogs and birds and bats and rats and whatever other stereotype people had grown up with, either. (Humans were better, they'd learned. Humans could tell their witch to stop. Could say when it hurt. Lived long enough for the bonds to draw tight. Gave better support.)
The wolves' faces were relaxing out of perturbed, at least. Apparently trusting that Stiles couldn't lie to them either. (Which, hello, so not true. But he wasn't, so whatever.)
Problem was, there were other noises in the woods, now. They needed to go.
"We haven't hurt anyone," Stiles repeated, trying to swallow back the guilt he felt for bringing them there to begin with. For not leaving, that first day. "You haven't had a rash of strange injuries, or violent disputes, or horrible accidents, right? Lydia's really careful about that stuff."
She had to be. If she wasn't thinking through doing a straight up exchange of forces, keeping the balance on her own, the cost all went to Stiles. And maybe she didn't love him, but she liked him enough. Knew what his value was, now that they understood what they were for each other.
"Just let us go. We're as close to harmless as it gets."
Derek snarled, and Stiles' stomach sank. "Witches don't know how to be harmless. Why did you come here, anyway?"
Stiles could feel Lydia go tense against his back. Didn't know if it was at the implication that she couldn't do something if she wanted to, or-- "My name is Stiles Stilinski." --or objecting to the chances that he was going to say that. "My mother was Claudia Stilinski. She-- She talked about my dad, a lot. Before she died. I just--"
Lydia's hands jerked up, instinctive, and stopped an arrow mid-air.
(Stiles felt a tickle of warmth against his lip and was mostly thinking 'oh, fuck, not my nose again,' instead of worrying about the arrow. Lydia had the arrows covered. He didn't have to worry about those. Just--the people with the bows. And the guns. Those were a problem.)
Derek jerked his head to the side and--
And the blond wolf ran off. Left Derek alone with a witch and a--well, a Stiles, since they didn't really understand what familiar meant, yet. (Though, considering where Stiles' mouth had been just a few days before, in relation to Derek, he kind of thought 'a Stiles' was realistically more dangerous than 'a familiar', even knowing.)
"You say you're not dangerous?" Derek asked as he stepped forward, features melting back to something that could pass for human. "Prove it. Come in with me."
"Where you can lock me up?" Lydia asked, hands still up and shaking almost as much as her voice. "Lock the magic down until it burns me away?"
Weirdly, Derek nodded. Didn't stop walking toward them. (Didn't smile, or frown, or glare. It hurt, to see him that blank.) "Lock you up, yes. For stealing the car."
Stiles blinked. "What?"
"You stole a car. I'll arrest you for that," Derek finally came to a stop, just out of arm's reach. "You two will stay at the station, you'll prove you're harmless by staying put without magical restraints and we'll--talk. About the rest."
The thought made Stiles' gut clench up, but Lydia said "Yes" like she'd been waiting for the offer her entire life, and. Well.
He couldn't really say no after that.
-----
Lydia would go down in the books as the first witch to willingly enter incarceration and not end up totally fucked by the system. Not that it would be any fun. For anybody. There'd be misunderstandings, both accidental and willful, and someone would try to take Stiles away from Lydia, and a wall would end up melted and five people, including Stiles and Lydia, would need to be rushed to the hospital. There would be days, weeks, of Derek refusing to look at Stiles at all. Of his da-- Of the sheriff looking lost and dismayed.
There would be complications, and the government getting involved. There would be, weirdest of all, a witch and her familiar being smuggled out of prison and to a deputy's house, to keep them safe. There'd be arguments over what magic could and could not do, and trying to prove it, and ending up at the hospital again.
There would be reconciliations. Eventually. There would be discussions and arguments that weren't fights, and learning to redefine the meaning of family, of pack. There would be something that could pass for a happy ending.
But that would take time.